


wish u were here, wish you were there

by Sonny



Series: Cracks In The Pavement [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Set in "The End"-s universe of 5yrs in the future with Future!Dean--runs alongside of "Swan Song"-s end into Season 6 with Soulless!Sam - It's Zachariah's fault; he managed to "open" a permanent portal that's been doing nothing but quaking and shifting the whole world into itself as Dean and Sam go on in their lives--5yrs in the past ; With Zachariah's unfortunate death, Heaven has been a little lax in awareness about what kind of "Hell On Earth" has been created right under their noses...</p>
            </blockquote>





	wish u were here, wish you were there

**Author's Note:**

> Sub-Summary (for Future!Dean) - Future!Dean returns to his own life, after he died at the end of "The End", and finds that the world he once knew is no longer his present. Lucifer, in Sam's meatsuit, still walks this Earth, there's still a Zombie Apocalypse that knows no end, but now there's tremors and quakes, leaving cracks in the pavement... and wherever those "cracks" are, there's been a minor or major change in the world. But now, Future!Dean has a loving wife -pregnant with their second child (five months along)- and teenage son. He'll try to keep his own family together while relearning who Sam has actually become for him, if he's not really Lucifer...
> 
> Sub-Summary (for Soulless!Sam) - Instead of asking Sam to leave for a few weeks, Samuel has asked a good friend of his to "send" his grandson somewhere (anywhere ; he doesn't care) where no one can find him and tail them as the Campbell clan have gotten closer and closer to successful hunts, killing and ridding the Earth of all Evil and the Un-holy ; Reluctantly, Sam agrees to be sent into "hibernation", but has no idea to where he will be transported. Unfortunately, for him, he's got the same face as Lucifer and he doesn't quite "act" like Sam Winchester anymore.
> 
> And then Dean meets Sam...

 

 

 

He stands at the pedestal sink, a hot, moist washcloth running over his clean-shaven face to wipe away the last of the cream. He knows this isn't right; this doesn't “feel” right. There's pain; there always seems to be pain these days, but this time it feels like there's a festering wound, where bullets landed. Or he's been hit in the head with a blunt object, skull cracked open with blood seepage on the brain.

There's also peace, which he never expected to feel again. It's deeper inside him than the pain and... he's not alone. It's like that creepy scene he recalls with the Djinn, surrounded by the light of dead loved ones who have passed on beckoning him to stay and be with them—forever. He's unsure if it should actually feel this way, such a contrasting mixture of good and bad. Because when he removes the cloth from his face, able to peer at the mirrored image looking back at him, he feels... _nothing_...

It's a feeling he knows best. It's what he feels when he can't sense family—the love, the unconditional emotional ties that bind him to people—one sole person, in truth. He can't sense John— _Dad?_ He hasn't sensed Mary in decades— _Mom?_ And he sure as hell has lost every bit of connection with Sam— _Sammy?_ It's as if they've been erased, permanently. He thinks he's supposed to end up being alone, but he knows he's loved. It's not close; it's further than it's ever been for him. It's just not the same like it used to be or ever will be.

Dean's been alive now for twenty-five minutes and he already feels pissed off and agitated. Someone has messed with him. Played a gargantuan prank on him that can't be undone, won't ever be undone until he gets his shit together, gets caught up on what he's missed while dead and is brought up to speed what's happening in present time—his new present time. In another ten minutes, he knows he'll be right back to where he's used to being: hunting and killing things... self-righteous and stubborn, ready to haul ass, burn rubber and shooting first, asking questions later.

There's a feeble knock on the door, a soft soprano voice calling his name.

Dean stares down his reflection, attempting to swallow the bullshit he's just been fed.

Wife. Kid. _Kids_ , actually... a baby on the way...

Apparently, this is his house. An inherited estate he doesn't remember acquiring. It looks nothing like it did five years ago. Actually nothing in this small decaying town looks like it did five years ago, not until after Sam Winchester had said “yes” to being a human vessel Lucifer.

 **~~ &&~~**

Outside the door stands Rehan (Ray-ann) Winchester. She's not a tall woman; she's not a knockout hottie. She's red-haired and at a perfect height that helps her reach her husband's broad shoulders. She's standing in their bedroom, knocking on the paneling to the bathroom door to hand Dean his change of clothes. She's five-months pregnant with their second child—another boy. She won't tell Dean this news because he's been set on having a girl—one of each to complete their family. She feels her heart palpitate at the memory of seeing those gorgeous green eyes mist with such emotion at the proclamation when they learned she was still fertile and could have another child. This would _always_ be their destiny.

The green eyes that had stared at her earlier were **_not_** her husband's.

She's unsure who inhabits her husband's skin now, but she's been prepared for the day she might loose “him”—not Dean, but the essence of whom her husband was as an individual. She's oddly all right with this version of Dean. She's loved him this long and has vowed to stick by him no matter what.

When Castiel came and got her out of her kitchen, bringing her to where they had carried Dean when they found him at last, she knew this person wasn't _her_ Dean. It became more profound when she noticed he was ring-less, not even the paleness of the ghost markings of a ring, to say he had _ever_ been married. Bobby told her what had happened—how, with the last big shake another shift had occurred and Dean was no longer dead, but very much alive—barely.

She leaves the clothes on the low dresser top near the door, scratching on the wood to inform him she'll be waiting downstairs, in the kitchen, having loaded the back of the wagon with food supplies for the impromptu town hall meeting. As she pushes off the doorjamb to walk a few feet away, she hears the knob turn and the hinges creaking open. Through the widening of the door, she sees the bare muscular arm rest on the wall, above his head, and the half-naked view of her husband's bruised and battered chest, yet still physically fit, causes her to intake a breath.

Yes, it's her husband's _face_ , though missing some of the fullness. The body is this _other_ Dean's, because _her_ husband had let himself go a few years back, gaining pregnancy weight right along with her. She actually misses the “pudge” around his middle; those flat abs look much too inviting. Most striking is the overall countenance. _Her_ Dean is jovial, a mischievous wit and a bit reserved; he could be stern when needed, like when discipling their son. _This_ Dean... scares her, making her feel different emotions a wife of ten years never feels for her husband—unless they were newlyweds.

“ _Ree_ - _han_ ” Dean was told his wife's first name and only feels it's respectful to not go too informal—with “honey” or “dear”—but he's not certain how to pronounce her name. He can tell he's botched it already by the look on her face—a very uncommonly pretty face.

She's used to the butcherings, so she simply moseys on through the typical correction tactics. “R-E-H-A-N... the 'h' is silent. Think of it as sounding like a 'y', if that helps.” She feels the flush of her skin, which she can deny is hormonal because of the baby, not because of a sexy male body. She's not prepared for the kind of smile she receives; it digs right into her gut.

Dean straightens his body, letting his arm rest along his side as he holds onto the door. He's shy, for some reason, using the paneling to hide himself from sight. She knows his body and he doesn't know her; it's as weird of a feeling as one can have when meeting their wife of ten years for the first time. “Sorry...” She makes him feel like he did when his mother looked at him, like he hung the moon—and maybe the stars. “I'll try to get used to saying it.”

“It's okay.” Rehan finds it comforting to ease his worry; he looks like he wants to slam the door in her face and hibernate. It's a strange feeling to look at him and know that she can't use any of her memories to work with making him less stressed. “You've only been here a half-hour. I'm not one of those sticklers for what used to be.” Living here in the now, one had to get used to being flung back and forth in your own reality. “You stay here long enough, you get used to the consistency of change.”

“Still... we're married.” Dean knows that entails much more than he's willing to shell out, even for a nice, sweet woman like Rehan. “I'm your husband, you're my wife.” He thinks if he says the words out loud it will feel more real to him; it doesn't. “We have a ki—we have _kids_. We've built us a family.” It's tough to admit that it's a family he doesn't know if he wants. “I may not fully understand what the hell is goin' on here, but... I do know I owe you respect and a certain decency.”

Rehan doesn't expect those words from Dean, not _this_ one. It warms her heart to almost fathom her husband could be embedded deep in there, somewhere, coming out for her every so often.

Dean moves from out of the bathroom to pick up the pile of clothing, neatly stacked and freshly laundered. “Is everyone waitin' on me?” He hates knowing he's holding the whole town up, waiting on pins and needles for his appearance.

She shakes her head, giving out a small grin. “No. Some people are travelin' in from far. Others were in town for your, uh...” It's tough for her to think about this truth.

“... funeral.” Dean adds with a tender look of understanding.

Rehan blinks fast until she finishes clearing her throat. “We didn't know what to do with you.” She shakes her head, crossing arms over the top of her belly. “Frankly, we don't know what to do with any of the dead, except bury them where they're killed. If they're zombies, of course we cut off their heads and dig separate holes. But—” She glances up to see quiet disgust on Dean's face. “What? They told me that when _you_ passed on, it was the Zombie Apocalypse as well.” She was fairly certain she wasn't saying anything new to him that he didn't know already.

“That's not—you don't look like you'd kill zombies or demons... or hunt, salt or burn graves... or hurt a god-damn fly.” Dean winks toward her to show there are no hard feelings and what he said wasn't sexiest, just stupid assumptions. She's not tiny or petite; she looks like she could kick his ass if he let her.

She gives off a shy smile as she averts her head. “You and I—before you were killed, you learned how to hunt and kill. Then you taught me those same skills... and our son.”

Dean stands proud, a wry smirk on his lips. “I did, did I?” It's good to know that his other self had a sense of “family”; that appeared to be the one constant in Dean Winchester's character. “I must've had dormant memories of my past life.” He remembers that the one person he trained to be a hunter like him was Sam. “Most husbands...”

She's quick to correct him. “You weren't like most husbands, Dean.” She senses that low bellyache that churns when she thinks about _her_ Dean's passing and the funeral plans that were set in motion. She knows her dialogue will contain words of a past tense that are unfamiliar to her, especially when she can see, feel and hear her husband right in front of her. “Did _you_ ever marry?” She's aware that there will be new memories to share as this man seems to be the _right_ Dean Winchester who lives in this future world.

“What? Me?” Dean places a hand on his upper chest in shock. “Uh, no...” If she only knew what kind of a random bachelor life he had led. “... not that I'm aware of. Though I have heard this mad rumor that something of a marital connection has happened to me five years ago. I guess that's what they'll be telling me, along with everything else I'm supposed to hear at the meeting.”

Rehan finds her reason to smile again. “That's a relief— _whew!_ It means I have a 'fighting chance' of really existing!” She fist-pumps into mid-air, curtailing herself from dancing where she stood.

Dean thinks the show of excitement was indicative to the type of person Rehan is and always will be despite whatever is thrown in her path. “I'm supposin' I'll comprehend all this better once this town meetin' is over with?” He doesn't need her to cajole him into calm; he knows that he needs to pay as close attention to what's said to him over the next hour or so.

“Uh, yeah...” Rehan swivels to exit the room, but she stops when her hand is on the door knob and she's tugging the paneling open. “Don't be too long. My pies are guaranteed homemade, so folks expect them to be piping hot and fresh from the oven.”

Dean pauses, because he just heard a word that sends him into a personal Heaven. “ _Pies?_ ” He gulps down a hard swallow at the mere thought. “Did you say _pies_?”

“Yes... why?”

“Uh, no reason.” Dean wants to pat himself on the back; he has managed to find a wife who actually bakes him pies.

She raises one lone dark red eyebrow. “I even made your favorites.”

“Well, say no more.” Dean makes a race to the door and flees behind the paneling. “Let me get dressed an' we'll be off.”

Rehan's not hurt by Dean's excitement over food; it was why he had a problem with his weight in the first place. Then he had to go an marry a woman who could feed him properly to his heart's content. One thing she worries over is which pies were this Dean's favorites or is it simply pies, in general, he likes? Something tells her it had to be the latter.

 **~~ &&~~**

 **  
  
**

Sam lays back in the metal framework of the bed in Bobby Singer's old panic room. He's been shackled down for his own safety and those who dare to stand guard outside the door. It seems they “know” him or are familiar with the _thing_ he's now become. Not only are they using thick, buckled leather restraints on him, they have a heavy, wide-looped titanium towing chain weaving through hooks on the restraint cuffs and then winding around twenty-five pound bolts cemented to the floor. It's like they had planned for his arrival.

Trouble is... they don't have whom they assume they've trapped.

Five years into the future, Lucifer wears Sam Winchester's face and body carrying the pure evil in a six-foot-four meat-suit. Five years in the past, the man who bears Sam Winchester's features and overall appearance is only without a soul. Huge difference.

As brown eyes scope out the bland, rusted decorations adorning the circular wall, nothing much has changed. Only the smells, which seems to have become worse than it had been. It felt like more than one captured demon had been brought in here; from the dried blood spatters on the walls, more than likely a few had been sacrificed here too. It seems that without a soul makes every single one of the senses more profound to an extreme degree. There's a scent of moisture—like a leaking pipe that leaves mildew behind—and a non-absorbent metal that seeps a ripe staleness resembling an odor of blood. It's a heady scent. About the only saving grace is the twin mattress Sam's laying on, which has somehow gotten thinner—so thin he can feel the pin-prick pokes of cheap springs at his back and down his spine. It doesn't hurt; it's only fucking annoying.

There's little to no light now. Sam knows that an emergency yellow bulb will turn on once a certain hour of the late evening hits. He's certain that an Apocalypse hasn't allowed for inventions or advancement in technology. There's been a halt on culture and creation for five years. They could've gone back to the Dark Ages for all he knew.

He hates to tell these goons their binds are useless. They could beat him to a bloody pulp and chain him to a wall, strung up by all appendages, and he would still manage to set himself free once their backs were turned. Soulless, no one and nothing can hurt him. It's like his very own superpower, but he keeps it secret until he really has to tell them.

Sam isn't sure why he's playing along or why he's even allowed himself to be sent back here to this future world. He really had no say, simply told he had to go... _or else_. He could do with a nice vacation from his life or what had become his life for the better part of a year. He hopes Samuel Campbell knows what the fuck he's doing. Sam doesn't exactly have instructions on how to get back to five years ago. What he did know was that Zachariah's little trip he had sent Dean on opened a re-usable portal on a celestial plane to a world set five years into the future. And, apparently, it had become the only and best hiding place to store Sam until the dust settled, letting some of the more ferocious of evil warriors lose sight of Sam Winchester.

He's still not sure he understands the purpose of this trip. He was enjoying the life of a hunter, finally, and he wanted to get back to it as soon as he could. He knows Samuel and the entire Campbell clan have had successful captures and kills when he's a part of the action. Except now he couldn't be there because of some weird solstice bullshit and the Campbell's really didn't need the extra tails following them on their asses.

Sam agreed on the promise that he would be brought back once the coast was clear. Trouble is that he doesn't trust his own grandfather, in the first place. What he does know, and can count on, is that someone above or down below will always have their eyes on him. If Samuel's guru doesn't bring him back, then Sam's assured a frustrated or peeved angel or demon will yank him back to where he belongs.

It's only a few minutes of closing his eyes and resting on the flattened pillow that he realizes he's never thought of one good thing that's here... _Dean_. And if memory serves him right, this was the _future self_ — _of Dean's_ —that had been visited five years ago. Sam wondered if this _future_ Dean was anything like _past_ Dean... or was he completely twisted, like Samuel—so hellbent on hunting he killed innocents dead simply by their eyes crossing the wrong way?

Sam wiggles around a bit to adjust the hold of the restraints; they seem to be chaffing his skin. He has to remember to not overdo things without recalling that he would suffer consequences for his actions being misinterpreted. He laughs as low as possible, but when stuck inside a space built like the panic room the noises trapped have to echo out somewhere.

 **~~ &&~~**

Outside the rounded iron door of the panic room stands two men, neither of whom are Bobby Singer. But they do know whom this son of a bitch is that they have chained and locked secure to the floor via the bed. They aren't road scholars or men who have supernatural hunting skills; the only experiences they have are losing friends and family to not only the Apocalypse but also these celestial tremors that warp and bend their very lives. Neither man is even assured they belong here as they are less certain that the pure evil of Lucifer can really be contained inside this tiny metal room under lock-n-key.

“You hear _that_?” The shaggy dark-haired younger male in a John Deere trucker cap says as he tilts his head in the direction of the sound. It swear it's laughter.

“Hear whut?” The second man, older by a few years, is bald with a full beard on his lower face and jaw; he's rather portly, similarly dressed except for no cap on his head. He's at a disadvantage to his friend with one partially deaf ear; it's probably the one that would've heard the noise had he been paying closer attention.

It seems important to mention that these two aren't usually the men chosen for guard duty, especially for someone of this caliber of importance. But as all of the townsmen who would've been available were hightailing it into town to see, and hear, Dean Winchester reanimate to life, these two men don't know this particular Dean Winchester and refused to join in, giving up their night for bodyguarding. The younger male had gone to school with the _other_ Dean— _Rehan's husband_ —and had already come to terms with the loss following his death. He would need a few more days to deal before he could lay eyes on this _new_ Dean.

“Is he laffin' at us?”

“He don't even kno' us?”

“But we kno' **_him_**.”

Everyone knows Lucifer and knows exactly who he will look like once he shows his face.

“But there ain't nuthin' in there he can laff at or 'bout. He can't...”

The theory of this Luciferred body being able to free from the heavy weights of chains and bolts to the floor to pick up anything legible in the room to find funny was laughable itself. Just as more scenarios play in their minds, they hear a second noise, which is done as Sam tries to squelch an outright round of loud laughter; like a sniffle-snort.

“Awl'right! I's kill' me not ta kno'!” The younger male fumbles for the keys along the wall, finding that he's a little frightened. It feels better to say they should've locked this evil turd up where they could _all_ keep their eyes and ears on him; this business of locking him in a room they can only view him in through a tiny window seems a bit silly and idiotic. Anyone could be walking into anything the minute he opens the door.

“We're not suppos'd ta open it wit'out propur supervision.”

“W'a's a matta? Scared like a little girl? Afraid of a itty-bitty—?” As he attempts to give a sharp tug to the handle, the younger male strains against the heaviness of the door to learn he has been curious over nothing.

On the twin bed lays a sleeping giant, resting peacefully. There's no sign of any attempt at freedom, only the soft snores of a slumbering ex-angel fallen to the wayside into Hell.

“Well, can we shut tha door now? Are ya satisfi'd? I'm suhpris'd all of us ain't half-deaf wit' tha 'mount o'noise pollution we take inna day.”

“Seem'd real.” The younger male steps to the bed to stare down at the tall, hulking form barely fitting the bed frame. “Who's ta say he ain't got, like, mind-tricks up his sleeves ta make us think we see, an' hear, sum crazy-ass bullshit?” Upset that he wasn't able to beat the crap out of this _thing_ , he kicks a heavy steel-toed boot to one of the legs of the frame, sending the metal scraping over the cement flooring.

The loud noise creates a ricochet that sounds almost-exact to what “laughter” was heard earlier. This time the partially deaf older man hears it.

“There ya' go! Tha's prolly what ya hurd.” The older man grabs hold of the door to wave his friend back out. “C'mon, you kno' bettur. Git behin' this thing an' re-lock it.” He keeps a wary eye on the still form on the small bed. “Sumthin' tells me we might be agitatin' him. He can kill us wit' his mind, ya' kno'?”

“Yeah...” The younger male speaks on a faint breath. He bends low to sneer in an available ear turned to him. “—I'd like ta see ya try, pretty frat boy...” There's a certain confidence having the only keys that can free a prisoner; it's tempting not to let the power go to the head. He ropes in that animalistic need to play with control, so he backs out of the room and closes the heavy iron door with the help of his friend.

As the lock is set and the faint jangle of keys is heard, Sam reopens his eyes with a hint of a smirk dancing over his lips.

This was going to be more fun than he ever thought possible.

 **~*~the end**


End file.
